


Interception

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Hedge Witches, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mentions of animal poop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: A plan to protect Quentin from the hedge witches goes wrong for Eliot, but how far will Quentin go to help pick up the pieces?





	Interception

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldfiredragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/gifts).



> I don’t own The Magicians, they own me. This is just for fun. It was supposed to be a drabble for Cldfiredrgn, but it got long. Prompt was “What the hell happened to you?” Comments/kudos are magic. Enjoy!

Interception

 

“What the hell happened to you?”

 

Eliot turned, starting as Quentin spoke, then wincing as the movement caused dirty water and globules of mud to patter to the floor of the Physical Kids cottage. The door, still marked with the irregular charred circle Alice had given it when she and Quentin had let themselves in a few weeks before, swung shut.

 

“I—I didn’t think anyone would be up.” Eliot moved toward the stairs, wincing as his soaked socks squished in his shoes—God, his good shoes—with every step. Quentin unfolded himself from the chair in the corner, where he’d been re-reading _The Wandering Dune_ under the soft light of an ambient lamp. The big common room was deserted otherwise, with most Brakebills students having retired to their beds about midnight, nearly three hours ago.

 

“I couldn’t sleep. El, what _happened_?”

 

A slithery gob of mud mixed with something Eliot could smell dripped from his hair and the mere thought of Quentin seeing him (and smelling him) made Eliot bolt. He ran up the steps and jagged right to all but dive into his room. He slammed the door and then leaned against it as he listened to Quentin’s footsteps on the stairs.

 

“Eliot, wait!” He called, and Eliot turned a hand and then crooked two fingers to lock the door.

 

“Go away, Quentin! I’m fine!”

 

“You’re not fine!” Quentin’s footsteps crossed the landing and then he was knocking on Eliot’s door. Eliot lifted a shaking hand to his hair, which was starting to dry into crusty whorls, the ends stiff. He needed Margo—her unquestioning help, the way she’d help him out of his clothes and into the common shower down the hall before anyone else saw—but she was off campus this weekend with her new mentor, a magical adept who also happened to be a writer for a major fashion magazine. Eliot was happy for her, or at least he would be under normal circumstances, but this was anything but normal and he cursed her for not being by his side. On the other side of the door, Quentin continued to knock.

 

“Eliot please, let me in! Come on!” A pause. “Look, if you’re worried that I’ll tell people, I won’t! I swear! I just want to help!”

 

Eliot closed his eyes. He could still feel the trembling in his arms and legs from the spell the hedge witches had used on him and knew he wouldn’t be able to manage on his own.

 

_You told him you bond fast . . . so I guess this is the second thing you’ve brought upon yourself tonight, you fucking idiot_.

 

He unlocked the door, turned, and opened it far enough for Quentin to slip through before shutting and locking it again. Quentin peered into the darkness of the older magician’s room.

 

“Eliot, turn a light on!”

 

“Must I?”

 

“I can’t help you if I can’t see you!”

 

The overhead light clicked on and Quentin’s eyes widened as he got a good look at Eliot. His good clothes were streaked with mud and slime, and there were finger tracks in the stuff on his cheeks, as if he’d tried to wipe it away with equally dirty fingers. His hair, usually so carefully coiffed, dripped something Quentin knew wasn’t all mud. Thick globs were drying in the back, as if someone had pelted him with them as he was retreating. His usual expression, one of bored indifference that always bordered on quiet amusement, was unguarded. His legs looked wobbly.

 

“Fuck.” Quentin said, and Eliot nodded.

 

“The evening didn’t quite go as I’d planned—” The tall magician’s legs gave out and he fell to the floor, landing with a thud onto his ass. Quentin went to him.

 

“Eliot!”

 

“I’m all right! I’m fine, I just . . . I need your help, Quentin. Margo isn’t here.”

 

“I know. But what happened?” He asked, kneeling down and looking Eliot over before first removing his mud-caked scarf and then tugging off his cranberry jacket and then unbuttoning his vest. Eliot looked away.

 

“It’s a dreadfully long story.”

 

Quentin materialized a trash bag in one hand and dumped the sodden, smelly clothes inside.

 

“It’s a quarter after three in the morning, El. I think we have time.” He paused at Eliot’s trousers and then decided to remove his shoes and socks instead. Eliot frowned as water and sludge ran from each one as Quentin pulled them off and channeled the runoff into the bag.

 

“Those were _suede_!” The last word trembled with anger, but when Quentin glanced up, he saw a brightness in Eliot’s eyes that threatened to spill over onto his cheeks.

 

“Who did this?”

 

Eliot swallowed hard and his mouth tightened.

 

“Hedge witches. Four of them.”

 

“Hedge—! What happened? Did they jump you? We have to tell the dean!”

 

“No!” Eliot held up a dirty hand. “No, we don’t. And we aren’t. They didn’t jump me. Not really.”

 

“Not really? What’s that even mean?” Quentin fumbled Eliot’s trousers open in a way that would have been endearing and kind of arousing if Eliot weren’t covered in pig shit.

 

God, he hoped it was just pig shit.

 

“Meaning that they didn’t come out of nowhere and attack me. I went to meet with them. In an abandoned barn near the Mowhawk Valley.”

 

“You met—but you said—Eliot, why would you do that? You know what they’re like! You told me they were desperate, and after everything that’s happened, we know they’re dangerous! Why would you go meet a group of them by yourself and not tell anyone? You could have gotten hurt or killed!”

 

Eliot closed his eyes a moment and then Quentin’s hand fell on his shoulder.

 

“Okay, El. I’m sorry. Come on . . .” He slung Eliot’s right arm across his shoulder and wriggled underneath it, his other arm around Eliot’s waist. He managed to heave the taller man up with him, and Eliot swayed, now dressed only in a pair of midnight blue boxers with small white pinpoints on them. They were wet too but mercifully free of the gunk that was still in his hair and on his face. Quentin cast a spell on the door so he didn’t have to let go of Eliot and they went down the hall and into the cottage’s large bathroom. There were two on this floor, but the other one had a bathtub, not a shower, and Eliot was grateful that the shower was a walk in. He watched as Quentin got the water going and glanced down at Eliot’s boxers.

 

“Uhm. Can you—are you able to . . .?” He asked, and Eliot nodded as he pushed them down. Quentin lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down as Eliot pulled the shower curtain shut and stood under the hot spray, shivering, his arms crossed tightly as he cupped his elbows, as gunk from his hair broke loose and ran down his shoulders. He tried to reach for the soap, but he felt like if he stopped holding himself, he’d fall down again.

 

“Eliot?” Quentin called softly after about five minutes. “Are—are you okay in there? Do you need help or something?”

 

“Just having a bit of trouble with my balance.” Eliot replied, trying for a casual tone, but he heard the wobble.

 

“Did you wash your hair?”

 

“I—I’m not sure I can manage. You might need to help me get out and I’ll try again in a bit.”

 

No reply. Eliot frowned, wondering if Quentin had fled, no longer able to deal with the situation. Then the curtain pulled back at one end and Quentin stepped into the shower behind him, clad in a pair of dark boxers. Eliot turned, staggering, and Quentin reached out to steady him.

 

“What the fuck, Q?” He stared down at the shorter man, and Quentin cleared his throat.

 

“I told you I wanted to help. And I can’t just—you know—not help or pick and choose how.” Quentin reached up and took down the removable shower attachment. “Turn back around. Brace your hands on the wall if you have to.”

 

“Prison rules?” Eliot tried to smile and then Quentin was nudging him. Eliot turned and for a moment he felt Quentin press against him. He blinked, startled, but then more blissfully warm water was running over his head and Quentin’s other hand was there, gently breaking up clumps of mud and dried slime, where it melted and ran down the drain. More tears pricked Eliot’s eyes as the smell of the stuff permeated the small space. Despite the smell, Quentin’s hand never drew away or paused, rinsing every few moments, and then the attachment bumped against the side of the tub, spraying there, as both his hands, lathered with the citrus shampoo Eliot liked, plunged into his hair and began to gently scrub. His nails worked along Eliot’s scalp and he tried not to shiver. Quentin washed his hair twice, used the matching conditioner, and then rinsed it a final time. By that time, Eliot had managed to soak a loofah with body wash and get himself clean. The smell finally dissipated and Quentin turned off the shower.

 

“Hang on, just—wait there.” He stepped out and then opened the curtain, averting his eyes a little as he got one clean towel around Eliot and then opened another one as Eliot hooked it around his narrow hips. Quentin draped the other one over his head and put it up into a twist, the motion surprisingly deft. He wrapped a third around his waist and worked down his wet boxers, letting them slide to the floor.

 

“Ready?” He asked Eliot, who nodded.

 

“Feeling a bit stronger. And much cleaner.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Quentin.”

 

“You would have done the same for me.” Quentin smiled up at him as they went back into Eliot’s room. The trash bag with his clothes was gone, presumably popped into the dumpster when Quentin had gone to strip. Eliot’s nose twitched—the room still carried the faint, bitter odor and Quentin lifted his hands. Eliot sat down on the bed, watching, as he did a few quick turns with his hands and created a fragile looking ball between them, sheer like a soap bubble. He set it free and it burst in midair, releasing a subtle but pleasant scent, like clean linen, dissolving the last of the odor. Eliot smiled.

 

“Where did you learn that?”

 

“Alice taught me. She thought the first-year dorms had a funk.”

 

“A funk. Well, she’s not wrong there.” Eliot got a robe from his closet and pulled it on while Quentin stayed in his towel. He climbed up on the bed and Eliot looked over his shoulder.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked, and Quentin pulled the towel off his head. There was a pause, and then a brush was moving through his curls with care.

 

“Hold still.” Quentin said, and Eliot folded his hands in his lap as Quentin knelt behind him and worked the tangles from his wet hair. Silence spun out for nearly a minute, and then Quentin spoke quietly. “What were you doing with those hedges, El?”

 

Eliot sighed. He owed Quentin a great debt of gratitude—he’s not even sure if Margo wouldn’t have bolted after seeing and smelling him—and owed him the truth as well.

 

“I went to barter for a spell.”

 

“What kind of spell?”

 

“A protection spell. A powerful one. I looked in the library but there was nothing. I put out some feelers, and that’s when the group in the Mohawk Valley contacted me. I went there to trade for the spell—nothing that would have made them dangerous, just shit that impresses your basic first years. No offense. But the deal went bad. We argued, and then one of them blasted me from behind with battle magic. It wiped me out, Q. I slid about twenty feet and then one of them used a propulsion spell to pitch me over a hill. And at the bottom of the hill was a sludge pond. Apparently, the property used to be a pig farm.”

 

“Jesus El! You could have drowned or hit your head or they could have killed you! What kind of spell was so important that you felt you had to risk your life for it?”

 

Eliot pressed his lips together. The bed tilted as Quentin crawled off it and then rounded it to stand in front of him. He looked angry but also a little absurd, dressed in nothing but a purple bath towel, but his dark eyes bored into Eliot’s own until he sighed.

 

“The kind that would protect you from hedge bitches like Julia and Marina for the rest of your life. So that I don’t have to find you in a closet, comatose, ever again, or have to face the possibility of anyone hurting you to the point where you’ll never wake up, Quentin!”

 

The angry, defensive look dropped from Quentin’s expression.

 

“What? You—the spell was to protect me?”

 

“Of course it was! When we found you in that closet and Dean Fogg said it might be too late to help you, it was like a punch to the fucking gut.” He looked Quentin in the eye. “I’m not done discovering you yet, Q. I’m not even close. So yes, I bartered with other hedges because I want to protect you.” Eliot took a deep breath. “I—I care for you, Quentin. Deeply.”

 

Quentin went down on one knee, then both, and picked up Eliot’s hands.

 

“If you’re fucking with me, El, do me a favor and don’t let on.” His voice shook and Eliot squeezed his hands.

 

“I’m not fucking with you, Q! Christ, do you think I tried to strike a deal with a bunch of hedges to trick you? To fool you into believing I love you?” The words came out in a rush and Quentin’s eyes widened. Eliot sat there for a moment as the words echoed in the room, knowing that he couldn’t unsay them, no matter what Quentin’s reaction would be.

 

“So. You . . .” Quentin let go of one of his hands to gesture vaguely. “You, uhm . . . that thing you said? You do?”

 

“Yes, Quentin.”

 

“Oh. So do you mean that you—that you’re _in_ love . . . with . . .?”

 

“I don’t expect you to reciprocate. I know that you _hammmmmffffff_!” Eliot’s words were drowned by Quentin’s sudden, passionate (if not slightly inexperienced) kiss. He shivered, recovered, and cupped Quentin’s face to return the kiss. Quentin’s hands hovered around Eliot’s shoulders for a moment and then rested there before he pulled back.

 

“I do. Reciprocate, I mean. A lot.” He grinned, and Eliot pushed his hands through Quentin’s damp hair.

 

“Of course, you realize this means that I’m going to double my efforts to find a spell to protect you from anymore inceptions.” He pulled Quentin up and into his lap, coaxing the smaller man to lay his head on his shoulder. It didn’t take much, and Quentin sighed as he relaxed against Eliot’s long frame.

 

“You can’t put yourself in danger for me again!”

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s what caring for someone is, Q. Doing your best to intercept danger before it can harm the person you love.”

 

“Well . . . I guess that means I have to triple my efforts to intercept it while you intercept inceptions.” He smiled, and Eliot rolled his eyes.

 

“Please, Q. It’s four in the morning. Don’t make me regret asking you to stay here with me for the rest of the night.”

 

Quentin frowned.

 

“But . . . you didn’t.”

 

Eliot yanked the towel from Quentin’s hips and fell backwards with him onto the bed before rolling them onto their sides, with Eliot spooning him firmly. He tucked a pillow under Quentin’s head and pulled up the covers.

 

“Please stay.” Eliot buried his nose in Quentin’s hair.

 

“I will.” Quentin nodded, and Eliot settled a hand on his hip. As he felt the younger man’s breathing fall into the slow, steady pattern of sleep, he tugged him close, holding him, safe in the space that was Eliot’s arms, a space that contained no spell, but nevertheless held a magic all its own.

 

FIN

 


End file.
